


last cigarette

by jehans



Series: it's for you [23]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:43:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/pseuds/jehans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe he just needs a good fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	last cigarette

Feuilly often doesn’t come home from work until late, which means he sometimes doesn’t see his roommate all day, especially if Bahorel has a morning class and has to be in bed at a reasonable hour — which he does tonight. So why Bahorel is lying half off the couch with his head on the ground when Feuilly comes home at 1am is a bit of a mystery.

“Hey,” Feuilly says in greeting, tilting his head to the side to try to have some level with Bahorel’s gaze as he shuts the door behind him. “What’s going on?”

“Am I undesirable?” Bahorel demands angrily from upside-down on the floor.

Feuilly frowns. “I’m not sure I’m the person to be asking this,” he says slowly.

“There is not a woman on this campus who will go out with me,” Bahorel growls. “And I know, because I’ve asked them all.”

Feuilly laughs and tosses his keys onto the breakfast bar and separates the kitchen area from the living room (their suite looks exactly like Enjolras’ and Courfeyrac’s, only flipped). “Why are you so desperate for a date all of a sudden?” he asks, ducking into the kitchen to grab a banana out of the fruit bowl. “I thought you were all about independence these days.”

Bahorel glares at him. “I am  _really_  fucking horny,” he says bluntly and Feuilly chokes on his banana. Bahorel grins, showing all of his teeth somehow, and pushes himself up so he sit back on the couch normally. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he sneers, “I haven’t seen  _you_  with a lady in weeks.”

Feuilly shrugs, passing the back of his hand over his mouth. “I’ve been busy,” he protests. “I don’t have time for a girlfriend right now.”

“I’m not  _talking_  about a girlfriend,” Bahorel sighs, “I’m  _talking_  about a good fuck.”

“I don’t really work that way,” Feuilly mumbles, going to reach for a cup to get some water. When Bahorel just stares at him, he shrugs. “I don’t know, I just don’t really find  _fucking_  all that fun when I don’t know the girl.”

Bahorel sighs and flops back on the couch. “Whatever,” he says. “I’m horny and alone. God, I just want to  _touch someone._  Throw me a beer, would you? Let me drown my sorrows.”

“In beer?” Feuilly asks, going into the refrigerator to get one anyway.

“Yes, in beer,” Bahorel snaps. “Don’t judge, join.”

So Feuilly gets two, and brings them over to where Bahorel is, flopping down on the couch next to him and putting his feet up on the table.

Bahorel cracks his open and drinks deeply, glancing sideways as Feuilly tries to open his with shaking fingers.

“Dude, just smoke,” he says, “I don’t mind.”

Feuilly shakes his head. “No, I only have one left and I don’t have enough money to get more until I get paid  _next week_ , so I have to save it.”

Bahorel just shrugs at that and takes the can out of Feuilly’s hand, opening it before he hands it back.

Four beers later, they’re talking again.

“No, you just need a good  _fuck_ ,” Bahorel is slurring because for some reason they’ve transitioned from Bahorel’s need for sex to Feuilly’s, despite Feuilly’s protests.

“Well how am I supposed to get a  _good fuck_ ,” Feuilly counters, blinking to try to see straight, “when I have literally  _no time_  for a girlfriend and every time I’ve tried to have sex with someone I didn’t know, it was  _terrible?_ ” He grunts a little as Bahorel’s leg brushes, warm, against his as he shifts. “I need the  _connection_ ,” he finishes. “Otherwise the fuck is not good.”

Bahorel just snickers at him. “Maybe you just need to learn how to fuck,” he says and Feuilly makes an indignant sound.

“Maybe  _you_  just need to find someone you connect with,” he retorts, a little viciously. “God, Bahorel, it’s like you don’t even care about people sometimes.”

It happens more quickly than his beer-addled brain can process. One second he’s sitting on a couch, berating Bahorel for somethingorother, and then next he’s breathlessly flat on the floor with Bahorel straddling his hips and pinning his wrists down by his ears.

“Take it back,” Bahorel barks at him. He looks astoundingly angry, and his hair is falling rather nicely in his eyes. The line of his collarbone is visible through the gap between his shirt and his skin and Feuilly finds himself unable to look away from it.

He blinks. “I can’t even remember what I said,” he mumbles.

“You said I don’t care about people,” Bahorel spits at him, his hips shifting and thoroughly distracting Feuilly again. “Take it  _back_.”

“Dude, you’ve been going on and on about wanting a good fuck,” Feuilly protests. “I’m just saying it doesn’t sound like you care about  _who_  you fuck, just  _that_  you fuck. What is your problem?” he demands as Bahorel’s hands tighten around his wrists.

“You want me to break your fucking arms?” Bahorel asks and Feuilly gasps and almost says  _yes_.

“Dude!” he yells instead, forgetting that it’s two in the morning and people in their building are asleep. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“I’m just —” Bahorel grunts, and his eyes flit down to Feuilly’s chest, which heaves as he breathes heavily, and to his throat. “I’m just really… _fucking_  horny,” he says slowly.

Feuilly feels like his skin might slip right off of his body, like he might never breathe again. Impulsively, he rolls his hips up until they meet with Bahorel’s, then hisses as the hands around his wrists tighten even more.

“Your hands are still shaking,” Bahorel tells him, his voice low and dangerous.

Feuilly wets his lips. He’s painfully aware of the way Bahorel’s hands are so close to his face, how Bahorel’s thighs are pressed to either side of him. How he’s lying underneath him, completely at his mercy.

How  _fucking hot_  that is.

“Maybe you should smoke,” Bahorel is whispering now, pulling Feuilly out of his lustful reverie.

Maybe it’s the beer, but Feuilly feels bold. He turns his head. Bahorel’s wrist is  _right there_. He stretches and bites down on the skin of that wrist, almost like he’s fighting back, but he runs his tongue across that skin too, and Bahorel shudders.

Against his wrist, Feuilly mutters, “Maybe I just need a good fuck.”

The look Bahorel gives him make him quake. The hands around his wrists slide up a little until they’re wrapped around the base of his hands instead. Then, too quick for him to see again, Bahorel has darted forward and taken hold of Feuilly’s neck with his teeth, dragging them along his throat like a wolf after its prey. Feuilly moans and writhes and the sound is most definitely  _not_  a platonic sound, and there’s now no doubt that this is sexual, and yet Bahorel keeps biting and licking him and it feels  _so good_. His hands slip up further and twist until he’s actually lacing his fingers with Feuilly’s now and then teeth give way to lips as Bahorel  _kisses his jaw_  and Feuilly moans again, loudly.

They stop trying to speak to each other as Bahorel’s scruff scrapes against the soft skin of Feuilly’s throat. Hands are released and quickly fly to rip off clothes, legs bend and wrap around bodies, fingers clutch and tear at flesh, and it’s like they want to devour the other whole. But amid all the teeth and nails and marks, there’s kissing and stroking and tender sighs. They grind against each other as though to turn the other to dust, but the lips pressed to each other’s lips are gentle and earnest.

When it’s over, and Bahorel is gathering up his clothes and yanking on his pants, Feuilly sits, naked, on the floor and lights up his last cigarette. He sit there and smokes, and as Bahorel wishes him a hurried goodnight and refuses to meet his glance, he wonders exactly how terrible of a mistake have they just made.


End file.
